


Remember My Name

by freedomworm



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freedomworm/pseuds/freedomworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dream it -Earn it -Live it. In a world where the Avengers are just a group of artistic teens, they're up against their worst foe yet: themselves. (Or, to be less dramatic: our young heroes must face the chance of failure, the challenges of adolescent love, and the completely reasonable and perfectly logical realization that dreaming of success just doesn't cut it.)<br/>In other words, an Avengers Fame-AU.</p><p> </p><p>[Officially discontinued 8/10/17]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Woohoo! A Fame AU! :)  
> Fame AU Featuring:  
> Actor!Loki  
> Violist!Thor  
> Violinist!Tony  
> Pianist!Bruce  
> Photographer!Clint (except not really)  
> Dancer!Natasha  
> Dancer!Steve  
> ....and a whole lotta cameos.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Shield High School of the Arts, Auditions** :

Steve is only there because Jane doesn't want to audition by herself in a room full of people she doesn't know, and Thor, Jane's best friend, can't dance. Plus apparently he's currently auditioning as a violist, and is subsequently in a different room altogether.

The music starts; they dance.

Steve, who has practiced the routine with Jane for months, knows the steps by heart.

He loses concentration for a bit when he sees the redhead from before twirling gracefully.

That girl is going to get in, he thinks to himself as he focuses on the moves again. She's going to get in.

To his left, Jane stumbles nervously on a simple pirouette turn.

* * *

"You lack passion," They tell Bruce, "But we can work on that, if you're accepted to our school."

* * *

"Drinking from a half-empty glass, I fell into that negative spectrum… Makes the life seem brighter… imagine the taste of sugar after lemon. The flaws and blemishes become…" Loki pales, forgetting the next lines. "Ex-exposed …but …remain beautiful somehow, in the city of love." He looks down and almost whispers, "I bet the air feels rigid in the morning." He closes his eyes. Goddammit, he forgot his lines.

* * *

**Seven letters, seven different people; to Mr. Tony Stark, Mr. Steve Rogers, Miss Jane Foster, Miss Natasha Romanov, Mr. Thor Odinson, Mr. Loki Odinson, Mr. Bruce Banner. From: Shield High School of the Arts in New York City, New York.**

We are pleased to announce your acceptance to Shield High School of the Arts. Based on your auditions on June 26th or June 27th, we have chosen you to attend our school as freshmen in the new school year. Attached, you will find …

* * *

Loki stares at the words on the page with wide eyes. His hands tremble and the paper crinkles. The door flies open and Thor is standing there, a wide grin on his face.

Then they're both jumping up and down, hugging, whooping, hollering and screaming with excitement in the most undignified and childish fashion.

They compare their new schedules and talk about their plans for the future. Now that they've been accepted to the school, all those hours spent talking about performing on stage in front of an audience… it just seems more within their reach.

* * *

Steve and Jane open their letters at the same time.

Steve watches as Jane scans the letter and then sees her face fall. After a moment, she carefully refolds the letter and folds it, putting it in her pocket. She looks up slowly. "I –I didn't…" she trails off and bites her lower lip. "Well what does your say?"

Steve looks down and reads the letter over. "They…" He frowns, "They accepted me."

Jane looks away, out the window, still biting her lip.

Then she says:

"You should go."

"Jane, I-"

"Steve, it's a great opportunity. You're a wonderful dancer. Better than me obviously." She laughs a little.

Flatly.

They are silent.

 _The Last Spring_  starts up.

Jane scrambles for her cellphone, "Shoot. It's Thor." She stares at it without answering.

"Jane," Steve tries again. He wants to comfort her, but he's not sure how. He got into the school and she didn't. She wanted this so much more than he did…

"No, I'm" –she breaks off as the phone stops ringing and then she stands up. "Um, I have to get home, anyway. Sorry. Um, congrats," she chokes on the last word and whirls around, fleeing the room.

Steve wants to stand up and follow her, make sure she's okay.

He doesn't.

He looks back down at the letter.

_We are pleased to announce your acceptance…_

* * *

**Shield High School of the Arts, freshmen orientation:**

Tony takes in the group in the auditorium. There are about one hundred-fifty starting freshmen. He, of course, had no doubt that he would be among them. His audition was absolutely flawless, if he did say so himself.

Everyone's taking a seat, so Tony slides into the back row next to a kid with dark curls and a dark purple dress shirt and black slacks.

"Hey," He whispers as a man walks onto the stage.

The guy nods and they turn their attentions forward.

The man introduces himself to the audience as Mr. Coulson, the deputy headmaster. He then proceeds to tell them the rules of the school. He stresses that performing is only part of it; they have to get good grades.

Tony totally has this in the bag. Maybe he'll even choose to minor in piano…

Coulson welcomes Principal Fury to the stage and more speeches are given. Tony kinda tunes out. He looks around again.

The guy sitting next to him seems distracted as well.

He's drumming his fingers on his thigh, and it looks like he's fingering notes on an imaginary keyboard.

Pianist, huh?

When the assembly is over, Tony says, "So Fury seems…"

"He's one of the most renown individuals in the performing arts community." Says the guy.

"So the eye patch is a display artistry?" Tony wonders.

The guy (Tony should maybe perhaps find out his name) snorts in faint amusement. "I think he's actually partially blind."

"Oh."

"Bruce," the guy holds out his hand, "Bruce Banner."

"Tony Stark."

"Stark…" Bruce repeats, "As in-?"

"Yeah. My dad started teaching me how to read music before words," Tony flashes Bruce a grin.

"Wow. Uh, nice meeting you."

"Yep. You, too." New friend already. Tony Stark, you are too good.

They follow the crowd of students out of the doors and into the lobby.

Bruce glances at Tony, "Uh, guess we should just head back to our rooms, huh? Did they say lunch in an hour and a half?"

"Yeah, but I'm not living here," Tony shrugs, "My place is only like a block away."

"Oh. I'm from uh, Brooklyn, so. You're welcome to hang out with me until lunch, if you have nowhere else to go. That is," he frowns, looking uncertain, "if you want to, of course. My roommate hasn't showed up yet."

Tony could always just go home, but he pounces on the opportunity. He needs to make friends here. Alliances, his father calls them.

"Sure."

* * *

Clint reports directly to the deputy headmaster's office.

"Mr. Barton," Phil says as way of greeting him.

"Hey, these Misters are so formal. Call me Clint." He says, grinning cheekily.

Phil isn't amused. His pointed look says so.

"You'll have a dorm room to yourself," he says, handing Clint some papers, "You're still going to have to take some academic classes, so here's your schedule for that. Here is your work-time schedule. It's not set in stone; you'll be shipped off to whichever teacher needs you."

"'Kay." Clint scans the sheets, "Hold on, it says I'm majoring in photography and minoring in sculpting-?"

"Problem?" Phil tilts his head and blinks.

"You're evil." Clint says. "Evil."

"Oh, right. Here." Phil reaches into the drawer of his desk and pulls out an old camera and a roll of film. "Take some pictures."

"This is stupid." Clint grumbles. "Why can't I just work?"

"Because you're here on a  _student_  scholarship. So you have to at least pretend to  _be_ a student."

"It's not my fault I'm poor as dirt," Clint whines.

"Just go to your room. Follow your schedule. Don't get in too much trouble. Try not to give anyone a headache." Phil sighs, directing him toward the door.

Clint grins and races away.

He slows down in the dormitory halls.

It's crawling with …artistic people.

It's exploding with music; stringed, brass, woodwinds, percussion, voice, everything.

Clint does some seriously artful dodging to get down the hall to his assigned room. He dives inside and slams the door close on the zoo outside.

* * *

**Interlude: The backstories of our main characters—**

Thor and Loki Odinson are adoptive brothers. Loki is the adopted one. They've grown apart a bit with age. Thor started playing the viola when he was three. Loki always participated in school plays. At the end of the eighth grade, while Thor planned on auditioning for a special high school for the arts, Frigga asked Loki if he wanted to go, too. Loki, who didn't have any friends in the public schools anyway, decided to take the opportunity.

* * *

Steve Rogers took dance for six years until he was eleven, and then he quit. Jane was from his dance classes. They stayed in touch even after he quit. She called him up when she needed help rehearsing.

* * *

Natasha Romanov is the best there is. She's been dancing since she was two. Her parents are famous Russian dancers. She's at the high school while they go on a two year world tour with their company.

She fully plans on being the top of all five dance classes she's taking.

She's Natasha Romanov. Her name will be on billboards one day.

She doesn't need anyone. So what? It's not like she's a people-person anyway. She knows how to interact with her fellow dancers and that's all she needs.

Pure professionalism.

She is simply the best there is.

* * *

Tony Stark comes from a family of musicians. They also own just about every music and dance company out there.

'Nough said.

* * *

Bruce Banner.

He comes from an orphanage.

He's at the high school on scholarship.

Playing piano is really the only thing he has besides science. He likes science. But he loves his music. He needs it, to be honest. It helps him forget about his anger. Anger at the world.

For his parents leaving him to grow up alone.

For the kids who always made fun of him.

For not being strong enough to fight back.

And so he's pretty much screwed if he doesn't make it.

* * *

Clint Barton is there on student scholarship. He's there not to be a student –he hasn't been to school for years –but he's there because  _Phil._

Phil Coulson knew Clint's dad, and is quite technically Clint's guardian.

But you can't just go to a prestigious boarding school for free –hence the 'scholarship'. Clint's mostly just there to work, though.

He's not talentless.

His father was in a band before the accident. Clint used to go on tour with them. He can work turn-tables, sound boards, lighting… He knows how to play a little guitar, and he actually does a little bit of wood carving… sculpting can't be too different, can it?

So he's also there to be the extra guy everyone always seems to need for their artsy classes.

* * *

**End interlude—**

"God, it's fucking loud in here," Tony isn't really complaining, though. The noise is wonderful, in his opinion. Snippets of Vivaldi here, rapping and percussion there…

Bruce looks less comfortable with the noise, but Tony's come to realize that Bruce is always looking uneasy with  _something_.

They join the lunch line and Tony asks, "So what's your favorite Bach concerto?"

* * *

Clint sits at the edge of the room. He's sitting at a table with a couple of other loners, but he's not sitting  _with_  them.

"Uh, you take pictures?"

He looks up to see a scrawny blonde-haired boy with big blue eyes looking at him with a shy, uncertain friendliness from across the table.

"Yeah. That's what I'm here for." Clint shrugs. "Photography."

"Do you have a portfolio?" the other teen asks eagerly. "Oh, I'm Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers."

"Clint Barton." Clint says.

Steve politely holds out his hand for a shake.

Clint snorts, "Seriously?" But shakes it nevertheless.

"I'm majoring in dance. Ballet, mostly." Steve says.

"Ah." Clint nods, fighting back laughter.

"Is there a problem with ballet?" A new voice cuts in with a faint accent.

It's the redhead sitting at the end of the table. Up until then, she was ignoring everyone else around her while she nibbled on her salad. She's looking at Clint defensively.

Must be a ballerina.

Whoops.

"No," Clint says quickly, "This is a school for the arts. I don't have a problem with dance. Dance is art."

She glares at him for a moment longer before turning away.

Clint looks back to Steve and shrugs.

On the other side of the dining room, a couple of students start up a popular pop song. It starts with the instruments, and then a couple of singers join in and then the dancers… soon, half of the students are participating in an impromptu show.

Steve looks terribly overwhelmed and yep –he soon excuses himself and takes his remaining lunch outside to eat.

* * *

Loki isn't surprised that Thor's already made a load of friends. At first, he felt a small flicker of surprised happiness when someone knocked on his dorm room and he opened it to find Thor standing there.

But then it turned out that he was there for Loki's roommate, a grim Asian named Hogun who played the cello.

So now Loki is sitting in his room all alone, a bitter resentment cooking slowly in the pits of his stomach. Of course, he's gotten used to this feeling of being left out. He and Thor just don't share many common interests.

* * *

Bruce, of course, has a keyboard in his room. It's not the best; it's quite cheap, actually, but useful nevertheless.

Tony's playing it, and he's good, Bruce admits silently, but not on the same level as himself.

Still, Bruce is a bit relieved that Tony's majoring in violin, because that's one less competitor to worry about.

This is, after all, essentially a competition.

They will race each other all throughout high school for the honors, the college scholarships… the chance to perform, the opportunity to get signed…

Bruce, of course, hopes to be a concert pianist one day. He's been told that it's a big dream, but he thinks he can make it happen, with the right amount of focus and determination and…

"Hey, did you see that dancer-girl during lunch?" Tony asks.

"Which one," Bruce rolls his eyes.

"I think her name is Pepper. I heard another girl calling her that, anyway." He says, looking thoughtful. He stops playing the keyboard, his fingers dragging to a stop on a chord.

"What about her?" Bruce asks.

"She's cute," Tony says significantly.

"I guess so," Bruce shrugs.

"Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Bruce says, "I guess so. Last year. But her dad hated me, since I'm from an orphanage."

"Seriously?" Tony looks surprised. Bruce wonders which part he's reacting to. "That sucks. Why would he hate you because you grew up in an orphanage?"

"I'm not the ideal boyfriend." Bruce says with a shrug.

"That's B.S," Tony declared, "You're nice and sensitive and it's not like you were hit with the ugly stick or anything. I mean, isn't that the stuff chicks look for?"

"In rom-coms, yeah." Bruce says with a sigh. "It doesn't matter, anyway. The next four years of my life are completely booked."

* * *

The first day of school for the freshmen class starts like this:

They wake up at six-thirty in the morning.

* * *

They have all academic classes in the morning.

Natasha can do numbers well enough, and science isn't an issue, since most of the lesson is given orally.

But English.

Ah, English.

She sits in the back of the classroom for this one, and hopes the teacher doesn't see her.

When the bell rings, she leaves class by herself. Some of her classmates catch up with the friends or roommates to chat while they walk.

Natasha's roommate is a violinist named Sif who has no respect for dance.

No, Natasha's better off by herself.

* * *

Clint isn't required to actually do any homework. He chooses which classes he sits through in the morning, despite his schedule (what schedule? He doesn't even have it anymore). During the afternoon, when all the other students are beginning their first elective classes, he grabs his camera and heads over to Phil's office.

Phil gives him an earpiece and tells him where to go first.

The piano instructor requires his strengths.

He goes to the classroom.

Ms. Val Cooper has him has him positioning fifteen upright pianos while she talks to her sophomore class about the curriculum.

No one gives Clint a second glance as he does his work, and not a word is said when he leaves.

* * *

Steve stands a bit self-consciously in the corner of the room. He's easily the smallest person in the room.

The instructor's name is Ms. Hill.

She tells them to stretch and then to find a place at the bar so they can warm up. She takes attendance as they scramble for the best places at the bars.

Ms. Hill presses the PLAY button on the CD player and Vivaldi fills the air.

Steve notices while they go through the warm-up routine that he's possibly got the flimsiest point in the class. He resolves to try and strengthen his tendus.

* * *

Tony is absolutely horrified to find that he's been assigned second chair, first violin. The person who gets his seat –it should be  _his_  seat –is a guy named Charles who at first glance seems serene and reasonable but is actually a freaking evil mastermind. One who happens to be a mind-reader as well, apparently.

"Yes, I do know who you are." Charles says, "But background does not equal talent."

Damn this snooty British guy and his snooty British accent. Tony maintains a polite expression. "I have no idea what you're being all presumptuous about here." He says, "I didn't even say anything. Now give the A already."

* * *

The first exercise they do in the drama class is to think of something that makes them feel emotional.

"First emotion," Their instructor, Mr. Wilson says, "is pain. We will be doing one emotion a week in between our other exercises. I'll assign an emotion and give you a script and you'll do your best to make us believe what you're feeling. The best way to do this is to think of a certain moment of your life and amplify what you felt into your acting.

"What type of pain do you want?" Wade Wilson (possible relation, he insists, even though his skin is two hundred shades lighter than the teacher's) asks, "I mean, there's sad-pain and then there's I-just-got-shot-in-the-knees-pain."

"Why don't I leave that up to you?" Mr. Wilson replies. "Alright? Now as I come around the room, I want you to pick a slip of paper out of the hat. That will be your line for this week. Pack all the pain you can into it. You may add more lines to it, but please keep it simple. If you feel that you need someone to direct your line toward, you may pick a partner. Tomorrow I'll have a couple of volunteers near the end of class to perform, and then for the rest of the week, I'll pick people to deliver their lines, sound good?"

Loki reaches into the silk top hat and pulls out a scrap. He opens it to see what his first challenge is. He frowns.

* * *

**Loki's challenge—**

_Maybe I'm not doing it for you. Maybe I'm doing this for me._

He can see how the lines might convey anger, how they might show exasperation, but pain? Not necessarily. But then, he's Loki Odinson. He's going to make this work.

* * *

Everybody loves Thor. The teachers are endeared by his happy and easy-going nature and appreciate that he's got some intelligence in that head of his as well. He can also play pretty decently and makes first viola in his concert orchestra class. The other students are absolutely enchanted by such a handsome, nice kid. Even the upperclassmen are drawn to him.

* * *

No one seems to notice Bruce Banner sitting in the back of the his classes. There is, of course the exception –in physical science he is  _all_  there. But yeah. He sits in the back of his piano classes while Ms. Cooper talks about the school year.

* * *

That is how the first day classes end: The bell rings. Everyone spills into the hall.

* * *

"And he just has this terrible smugness that makes me want to punch him in the face. Seriously, who does that guy think he is?" Tony complains to Bruce during dinner.

Bruce wonders whether they're still talking about the Chair Thief (as Tony calls it). The descriptions are starting to sound a lot like ones of Tony himself… not that Bruce is going to mention  _that_.

"Uh, hey," comes a voice.

They both look up to see a skinny blonde teen standing there with a tray. "Do you mind if I sit with you guys? All the other tables are taken." He asks with an uncertain smile.

"Yeah, sure," Tony says, "Aren't you one of the dancers? I think a saw you. Um, you're in the class with Pepper Potts, right?"

The dancer sits down and nods.

"Oh, I'm Tony, by the way. Tony Stark."

"Bruce Banner," Bruce adds.

"Steve Rogers," says the dancer, stretching out a hand.

Laughing, Tony takes it in a shake. "Cool," he says.

They eat in relative silence, but Bruce has a feeling that Steve is going to be hanging around for a while yet.

After dinner, there's a first day of school performance by some of the teachers and seniors and everyone heads back to their dorms by eight-thirty. Steve, who turns out to be almost  _painfully_  polite, offers to 'escort' Tony home. He ends up just seeing Tony to the front doors.

And so ends the first day of the next four years of their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The monologue Loki is reciting during his auditions is from the YouTube video "Because the last moment wasn't optimistic" by iamcyr. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4COP5KfBy8)  
> :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry for such a late update (on everything). The next updates will come after equally long breaks and I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE. Bruce's song in this chapter can be found at  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lzJCHxLWiio&feature=related 
> 
> Also, if there's anything you want to see, go ahead and tell me. :) I'm willing to do a bit of fanservice here.  
> TSM

**Shield High School of the Arts, Freshman Year:**

It's late. Past curfew, in fact, but it's not like Clint's gonna get in trouble if a teacher catches him.

He sighs and drags the cleaning supplies down the hall to the room the custodian wants him to mop up. He opens the door, and to his surprise, discovers a redheaded girl in the midst of performing some umpteenth-in-a-row pirouette.

She sees him when she turns once more and comes to a halt quickly.

"What're you doing?" Clint makes a face, pushing the mop and water into the room.

"Practicing." She says steadily.

"You know you aren't supposed to be here right now." Clint says, dropping the mop onto the floor with a squishy  _thump_.

"There are auditions for the first…" she starts to explain with a faint Russian accent (that Clint secretly finds really freakin' cool, but his expression betrays nothing).

Clint waves his hand, "Look, I'm not going to tell on you or anything. But if you were going to say the first solo dance recital, you do know that's in two months and it's only the third day of the new school year, right?"

The dancer remains frozen on the spot, just watching him.

"Whatever," Clint says, "Go ahead dancing. I'll just… mop. I'm Clint, by the way."

"Natasha." She says.

And Clint mops.

She continues practicing and only stops when Clint is getting ready to leave, finished with his task.

"You leaving?" Clint asks as he pauses in the doorway.

She shakes her head and guzzles down some water from a bottle she's brought.

"Okay. Well don't stay up too late, I guess. School tomorrow and all." Clint finds his attempts at being responsible hilariously terrible.

She shrugs and steps into position to start again.

* * *

Loki sits in his seat, gaping, as the rest of the class breaks into applause for Erik Lensherr who's just finished his Performance of Pain.

Loki feels a sinking feeling inside of him. How is he supposed to compete with that? He sinks into his seat as Mr. Wilson clears his throat. "Alright, alright, very good. Now, would anyone like to lead us into discussion over Mr. Lensherr's performance before class ends?" the teacher asks.

"I really enjoyed the way your face worked, Erik," Wade volunteers, and everyone rolls their eyes or sighs.

"Come on, people," Mr. Wilson says.

"I thought the tears were a nice touch," drawls Daken (he has a last name, Loki is sure, but he can't quite recall anyone ever saying it) from the back of the classroom.

Erik, already perfectly composed and dry-eyed, glances back with a sneer.

From there, the discussion pretty much goes down the toilet, and when the bell rings, everyone clears out as Mr. Wilson calls, "We'll have three more performances at the end of class tomorrow!"

Loki pushes his way into the hall, frowning and deep in thought when someone rams into him from the side. He's about to yell a complaint when the same someone slings an arm over his shoulder and laughs. "Why hello, brother!" Thor says cheerfully.

Normally, Thor's appearance would've brightened up his day, but now, it just worsens an already sullen mood. "So you've realized we're attending the same school now, have you?" Loki says flatly.

"What's wrong, Loki?" Thor wonders, "Do you not enjoy your classes?" He looks thoughtful, "I, too, am a bit caught up in thought. Re-auditions for possible placement into the symphony orchestra are approaching." He sighs and then smiles once more, "How has your day been? I have not seen you since yesterday morning, before breakfast."

 _When you came by to find Hogun_ , Loki thinks bitterly. He makes a noise of indifference and ducks out from under Thor's arm. "It's fine, Thor."

"We should spend Saturday together!" Thor declares, "We can discuss our first week here at this fine establishment."

Loki can't help but perk up a little at the suggestion. "Really?"

Thor beams, "Of course, it will be fun!" he pauses suddenly, "Mother called earlier today. How are your studies going? She is worried that you are unable to keep up."

It's not that Loki's stupid. It's the exact opposite. He's only twelve years old; he skipped kindergarten and third grade to be in Thor's classes when they attended public school.

Loki likes to believe himself to be far more matured than the average twelve-year-old. He sighs, "Classes are fine." He says.

"Wonderful," Thor gives him another clap on the shoulder, "So I will see you Saturday and perhaps before then," he veers off in another direction, where Sif, the beautiful violinist is waving to him.

"Perhaps," Loki mutters dubiously, sagging his shoulders again and continuing on his own. Without Thor beside him, the students around him seem to be pressing in more tightly than before.

* * *

Loki can't say he's made any friends. That's the truth; he hasn't.

He's gotten away with sitting by himself for the past four days at every meal, but his luck has run out. The tables are all full. He looks around.

"YO, Odinson!"

Naturally, he doesn't turn. He learned early enough that when someone said 'Odinson' they were probably calling for Thor.

"YOU! With the angsty eyes and the lost expression!"

This time Loki turns, looking around indignantly. A couple of people are staring. Then he sees that fool Wade Wilson flailing his arms in the air. He walks over quickly hissing at Wade to shut up.

"Sit with us," Wade says, grinning widely.

Loki raises an eyebrow and looks around the table, which consists only of Daken, the sophomore from his all-around drama class, and an older kid with a scarred and blind eye.

"Why?" He says.

"Because you have no one else to sit with and we're all friends." Wade says.

Daken snorts at that, but doesn't look up from the iPhone he's using (that, frankly, he's not supposed to have at school) to text someone.

Loki sinks slowly into an open seat. "Who are you?" he says to the boy sitting next to Wade.

"This is Cable," Wade interrupts (not that Cable looked like he was about to respond in the first place), "He's awesome."

Loki raises his eyebrow and gives Cable a once-over. "Is he now." he says flatly.

" _Awesome._ " Wade insists.

Loki suddenly hopes –quite sincerely –that he doesn't end up making friends at all.

* * *

Steve fingers the hem of his shirt nervously as the class watches the seniors' demonstrations. They're showing the freshmen dancers a series of lifts that everyone will be expected to perform by the end of the year. Unfortunately, the freshmen class has only eight male dancers out of a class of twenty-eight and  _oh God_ , Steve can barely lift himself off the floor –how does anyone expect him to be able to lift a  _girl_? While the demonstration wraps up and the girls begin to titter excitedly, Steve looks down to his arms and flexes. Nothing happens. His arms are  _so_  skinny.

He's going to drop someone for sure.

He expresses this concern to Tony and Bruce at dinner, as they've become accustomed to sitting together at every meal.

"Pick the lightest people in your class to work with." Tony suggests rather unhelpfully.

"Maybe you should use the weightlifting area in the gym," Bruce says distractedly, too busy making notes on some sheet music. "You know, get some muscles."

"You could come over to my place on the weekends," Tony brightens, "We have weightlifting equipment –top of the line."

Steve says thanks, but he'll have to think about it.

* * *

Bruce leaves Steve to walk Tony to the doors as usual and slips up to his room. His roommate is still nonexistent, and he's glad for it. A roommate would've told him to shut up and stop playing his keyboard.

But he can't.

His group class instructor has given them their new assignment, their first assignment. It's supposed to be a 'fun activity'. They've all been given a different piece to work on independently and later play for the class. Bruce can't mess up in front everyone. He  _can't_.

He imagines finishing and their being a silence in the room, and when he looks up, everyone is staring at him in awe.  _Who are_ you? And they'll all finally see him for once and recognize his talent…

He feels the tension leave his body as he loses himself in the repetitive motion of his routine warm-up, a couple of major and minor scales. Now why can't he play freely for an audience? He always tenses up. It's a problem of his. One of many.

Bruce sighs and turns his focus on sight-reading his new piece.  _Requiem for a Dream_. It's not too long and not too difficult in terms of technique, but there's a certain spirit that must be captured, and Bruce is deathly afraid of not being able to get it write. He knows that he's more of a 'skill' player than a 'soul' player.

He's tried swaying, but it just messes up his tempo.

It's one o'clock, and he's using headphones while he plays now.

* * *

Natasha's there again when Clint enters the studio with his mop. She continues to dance, not stopping until she's finished her dance sequence and the music she's using has looped. She nods to him, breathing hard, and he returns the nod.

They proceed with their separate tasks in silence.

Clint watches out of the corner of his eye, observing the way her body moves, appreciating her grace. When she stops for a water break, Clint is almost done with the floor, so he stops, too and goes and sits down next to her.

"How long have you been dancing?" he asks after a moment.

"Since I was three."

"Eleven years?" Clint makes a face, "I can't imagine doing one thing for eleven whole years. You must really like it."

"It's what I'm good at." Natasha declares, standing up and returning to her work.

Clint thinks it's sad that she doesn't agree and say that yes, she really does like dancing.

* * *

All mornings have begun the same way for Tony Stark. At 5:45, Jarvis comes into his room to wake him up; he spends a quick half-an-hour freshening up and getting his clothes on, and at 6:30, he's out of the mansion and on his way to school via his private limo. Truth be told, Tony could've gotten into the Academy (and college) much earlier, but apparently his mother's wishes were for him to have a somewhat normal life. And apparently this meant waiting until he was freshmen-age to start freshmen year. Which is ridiculous, considering he's already taken all of the regular high school courses online or in private tutoring.

Sometimes Tony wonders if he is just  _too much_. He has the brains, the talent  _and_  the looks? Obviously, someone up there is choosing favorites. Not that Tony is complaining.

When he arrives to school, Tony leads himself to the cafeteria where he then seeks out Bruce and Rogers, too, he supposes.

He never eats breakfast at school because he eats before he leaves the house, but he does, nevertheless, sit with Bruce and Steve Rogers and ask them about their sleep, because that's the polite thing to do, and also because it's funny when someone blushes while that answer because that means Something Happened.

Tony thinks that Steve Rogers is too polite. And skinny and short, but most of all, he's  _really nice_. As in, the type of nice fourteen and fifteen year old boys aren't allowed to be just on the basis of being fourteen and fifteen year old boys. Damn, Steve's probably going to grow up and use all his dance moves to save old ladies on the street and help get cats down from trees. Or something obnoxiously kind like that.

Bruce, on the other hand, has esteem issues. Like, he doesn't believe in himself. At  _all_. And that kind of sucks because Tony likes Bruce and thinks he's pretty cool and almost as smart as himself.

One could say that Tony Stark has grown to  _tolerate_  the companionship of Bruce Banner and Steve Rogers. They would not be wrong.

* * *

Thor has had his mind made up. This Academy is a TRULY MAGNIFICENT establishment. He has let Mother and Father know this each time he receives a call from home. He has made wonderful friends –Hogun the cellist, Sif the violinist and Fandral the violinst, and of course Volstagg, the upperclassman bassist. They are starting a quintet, which is also TRULY MAGNIFICENT.

Thor believes that it is a shame that his MOST wonderful friend, Jane, didn't get to come to the school with him (he knows that one of her friends got in, maybe he should say hello) because he misses talking to her all the time.

He's quite busy, even between and after classes. When he's not practicing for his upcoming COMPETITION (it's actually an audition, but those are just competitions with no audiences), he's doing his homework.

Occasionally Thor will see Loki in the hall, looking thoughtful, and it reminds him of their upcoming FAMILY TIME. He's excited for Saturday. Loki is his favorite (and only) little brother and is a TRULY MAGNIFICENT human being. He is a great little scholar and Thor is very proud. He thinks that Loki will get all of the leads in ALL of the THEATRE PRODUCTIONS.

It is TRULY.  _MAGNIFICENT_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Shield High School of the Arts, Freshmen Year:**

Clint figures that if he's got a camera, he might as well use it. (Like seriously, what good is a camera without pictures?)

So in the afternoon when all the classes are in session and Clint has overstayed his welcome in Phil's office, he troops out into the hall with his camera with the intent to take some good shots. Of what, he hasn't the faintest. He just goes around aimlessly, dodging behind trash bins with his camera attached to his face.

He takes a detour back to Phil's office and nabs the school blueprints while he isn't looking. Pretty soon, he's made his way into the air vents, which are nice and spacey. Clint navigates his way to the dance studios.

The first studio he comes upon is the senior AP class and he watches with interest for a couple of minutes. But the dancers are doing some sort of sensual lyrical sequence that makes Clint feel vaguely like a Peeping Tom. He moves on, crawling and wiggling on his hands and knees. He almost passes the next class, but then he notices a flash of red hair, and sure enough, it's  _her._

Natasha.

He grins and sticks his nose against the vent to get a better look.

The class is doing the sequence that Clint has seen Natasha work on. He practically knows the moves by heart which is hilarious, when he thinks about it. As he watches the class work through the sequence, he finds himself feeling anxious about Natasha's movements although seriously, when did he become a little dance critique?

Clint cringes as he sees a girl standing near Natasha purposefully block off her space right before an axel turn. This causes Natasha's leg to brush against someone else and the two of them stumble a little.

Clint glares through the vent at the brunette who caused the incident. The teen is wearing a self-satisfied smile of utter smugness, and Clint wants to get down there and wipe it right off her face.

But it would seem Natasha's not about to let a petty classmate get the best of her. On the next series of straight leaps, Natasha steps on the back of the girl's shoe right before she takes off. The girl's leap is poorly developed and her landing is loud. The dance instructor looks around the classroom with an expression of someone who's been personally victimized and barks about not realizing there was a hippo in her ballet class.

Clint grins from his perch. Go Natasha.

The dance class breaks up into smaller groups shortly thereafter and the girls seem to be getting pretty excited about something. Clint notices that the males of the class have split off into a smaller group. The oldest boy in the class, clearly an upperclassman teacher's assistant steps forward and begins speaking about the values of core strength and Clint zones out, preferring to watch and see what Natasha's up to.

As to be expected, she's standing up straight and listening with utmost attention.

Clint snaps a photo through the vent. There the shutter is louder than he expects and the sound reverbs off the closed space Clint is situated in. A couple of dancers in the room look around in confusion and Clint figures this is his cue to get the hell out of dodge.

* * *

At lunch, Bruce approaches the usual lunch table to find Tony comforting a distraught Steve. Or at least, Bruce thinks that's what's going on.

Steve's hunched over the table with his head buried in crossed arms whilst emitting a high-pitched moan most commonly associated with the whine of a distressed pup. Tony's patting his had in a sort of  _shoosh, please don't get upset_  way with such a bemused expression, Bruce would've laughed under different circumstances.

"What's wrong?" He asks quietly as he takes a seat across the table.

"Er," Tony winces as Steve's noise becomes momentarily louder. "He's had a rough morning."

"I dropped her," Steve whispers in a mortified tone, peeking up with red eyes.

"Er," Bruce says. "Who?"

"Natasha Romanov.  _I dropped her_." Steve says again, dropping his head back into his arms. There's a muffled whine and his next words are incomprehensible.

"What's that?" Bruce frowns, but Tony apparently can speak Wordless Grunts, because he translates: "He said that in class today, the student teachers insisted that they try out lifts, just for fun –excuse me, 'just for fun'" Tony corrects, using air quotes after a muffled noise from Steve. "And he got paired with Natasha Romanov. He says it's a big deal because Natasha's hot –er,  _pretty_  and he feels horrible for dropping her on the ground mid lift."

"Tough, buddy," Bruce sympathizes.

Steve looks at him through his arms before his eyes widen and he ducks down again. Puzzled, Bruce looks to Tony, who nods at a retreating figure.

"That's Natasha," he says in reference to the redhead who had just passed. They watch as she crosses the cafeteria, her presence demanding an attention that does not make her seem approachable; she is a goddess to admire from afar.

Natasha Romanov sits down with her tray across from a small brunette boy and glances over her shoulder, throwing glares to anyone still staring at her.

Everyone quickly averts their gazes.

* * *

Clint looks up when Natasha sets her tray down and sits across from him.

"What I wonder," she says as way of greeting, "Is whether you are a student or not." She scrutinizes him. "On the first day of school, you said you were a photographer. Yet you mop floors. I've asked, and that is not a task given as detention. I've also asked, and you do not have any classes here. A schedule, yes, but you haven't gone to any of the classes."

"Where are you getting  _that_  information?" Clint asks, forcing a laugh.

"I said I asked. I have my sources." she pauses for a moment, "It's not my place to be able to judge you."

And just like that, Clint knows.

They're going to kick some serious ass together someday. He's not sure of the whys or hows, but he knows that they're going to be doing it together.

He smiles at the thought.

* * *

Daken gets to his feet, brushing off his jeans. His face, formerly contorted with emotion, is blank as the class claps, some of the 'weaker minded' (as Wade calls them, himself wiping a tear from his eyes) sniffling.

"Excellent, Daken," Mr. Wilson says, "Wade –settle down," he adds sharply. "Alright, we have time for one more –who hasn't gone yet? Loki-?"

When the fire alarm goes off, Loki thinks he'll never feel more relief in his life ever again.

"Very well, class is almost over," Mr. Wilson says, "Please form an orderly line – _orderly,_ Wade –and you'll have to go on Monday, Loki."

* * *

If anyone were to ask, it was  _not_  Thor who set the fire alarms off. Absolutely not.

Frankly, he's not sure how it  _could_  have been. Yet, facts are facts, and the facts are that it was, in fact, Thor who entered into a brawl with the second violinist Eric Masterson after overhearing the upperclassmen expressing approval of Sif's appearance (to put it politely).

The class had packed up before the bell and Sif had hurried away to meet with her biology teacher about something before her technical class. Thor, who had been packing up his prized viola in the hall, had heard Eric's remark to one of his friends.

Things had escalated, and it was perhaps possible that being pushed up against a wall had caused him to accidentally trigger a fire alarm behind him.

However, it is Thor's conviction that he is not to blame whatsoever.

It was all Eric's fault.

"I heard what happened," Sif is suddenly by Thor's side, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg at her sides.

The school is still gathered outside, waiting for the firemen to finish inspecting the building.

"You were defending my honor," Sif says, face expressionless. "However, it wasn't necessary, and now you've delayed classes for the day,"

Thor looks down. "I apologize, Sif,"

"Thor," she says, when he begins to turn away in guilt, "Thank you,"

He beams.

"And," Fandral speaks up, "Since you've stopped classes for the day, you owe us. First quintet practice tomorrow?"

Thor laughs, "Of course."

* * *

After dinner, Bruce and Steve walk Tony to the doors.

"Hey," Tony turns, one foot outside, "You guys are coming over tomorrow, right?"

"Of course," Steve says, smiling his genuine, one-thousand watt smile. They look to Bruce, who has hesitated.

He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck, "Yeah, uh," he says, "Look, Tony, I've got to practice."

"Practice? It's only the first week," Steve says, dumbfounded.

"Exactly!" Bruce looks up, frantic, "I've got to get ahead while I still can,"

Tony makes a face and turns to go outside, where his chauffeur awaits, "Fine. Whatever. See you Monday."

"Sorry"

"-No, it's okay." Tony calls over his shoulder with a wave, "Hey, Steve, I'll see you tomorrow, though."

They shout out their goodbyes to Tony's back and closing the doors, Steve raises an eyebrow at Bruce. "Piano's really that intense?"

Bruce groans, "Don't  _you_  make me feel bad, too," he says.

* * *

"Hey,"

Natasha's in her usual practice room, twirling away and doing things with her body that Clint can't even begin to comprehend. She pauses and looks over her shoulder, toward where he stands in the doorway, mop in hand.

"Zdravstvuj," she offers in greeting.

"Er, yeah… zuh-drah-stoy to you, too." He says awkwardly, attempting to replicate the phrase and failing horribly. "So," he leans against his mop, "Still dancing on Friday night? What, no breaks?"

"Not today," she says, and goes to restart her soundtrack.

"When's your audition thing, anyway?" Clint asks, "I mean, I know that the actual recital is in, like, a couple of weeks, but what about the auditions?"

"They begin next Thursday," Natasha says, and presses play on the CD player. "Excuse me, I must practice."

Thus ends the first week of school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys probably didn't realize that this fic was even still a thing. True, I haven't updated in... over a year (has it been that long??), and I can't promise I'll update soon after this, either, but I've got plans -I swear. I'm trying to get back into writing fanfic, so here I am. This chapter is half as short is the other two have been, and I completely apologize for it. It was necessary, however, to cut the chapter short. I wanted to put a certain, significant event that is taking place soon in the next chapter.  
> So, let's just hope I update soon!  
> Cheers!  
> -TSM


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the spacing looks weird... I c&p'd the text from where I crossposted the chapter to ff.net... When I tried pasting directly from word, the spacing was even worse (you'll notice that I was pasting from Word in the last couple of chapters, which is why the paragraph alignment and everything is so screwy).  
> Anyway, everything is unbeta'd except from my own read-overs so if you catch any mistakes, it'd be wonderful if you could point them out. Thanks for sticking by this fanfic!

**Shield High School of the Arts, Freshmen Year:**

Bruce wakes up draped over his keyboard on Saturday morning.

Sunlight streams in through the window shades and sitting up, Bruce stretches out his arms and glances toward the analog clock on the wall. The time it reports startles the last of the sleep out of him. It's nearly eleven in the morning, which is far later than he should have allowed himself to sleep.

He jumps to his feet and is immediately hindered by his headphones, which are still attacked to his keyboard but also wrapped around his neck. Bruce ends up yanking the headphones out of the keyboard as he stumbles back. After disentangling himself, Bruce grabs his shower things and fresh clothes and heads to the communal showers on his floor of the dormitories.

It's pretty empty and Bruce is the dressing room, brushing his teeth over on the sinks when a boy races out of the showers, tugging on a white shirt, much to Bruce's surprise because he could have sworn that he didn't see anything coming in or out.

The other boy must be a freshman, and it's not that he's particularly short –just a little below average, perhaps –but he seems… young. He dons a dark green vest and pretty much looks like an absolute dork (though who's Bruce to talk?), his chin-length black hair tucked behind his ears.

Bruce turns to spit out toothpaste as the other boy begins fussing over his appearance in the mirror about two sink basins down.

"You… uh, going on a date or something?" Bruce isn't sure why he takes the initiative to talk, but he does, and it's an alright conversation starter as far as conversation starters go; the other boy's attire  _is_  somewhat formal.

"No," says the boy, "No, of course not." His accent is British, but Bruce isn't entirely shocked; there's a lot of foreign students at Shield.

"Oh."

The boy doesn't say anything else, but there's a giddy excitement to his movements and he's smiling vaguely as he turns to leave.

"I'm Bruce." Bruce blurts.

The boy pauses in the doorway, one dark eyebrow quirked. "Alright," he says, and leaves.

Bruce slaps a hand his face and realizes that there's still a ring of toothpaste foam around his mouth.

 _And this_ , he tells himself as he leans over to wash it off,  _is why you don't try making friends on your own_.

Straightening up, Bruce suddenly feels a pang of guilt. The thought of friendship has reminded him of Tony and the get-together that had originally been planned for the day. Heading back to his dorm room, Bruce can't help but question his decision from the evening before. Can he really afford to lose whatever friendship he may have started with Tony and Steve just because he wants to practice his piano?

But he  _has_  to practice, a part of his mind argues. He doesn't have anything else.

He's supposed to play the  _Requiem for a Dream_  on Monday, and even though Bruce  _knows_  the piece by memory, he's…

No.

Staring at his keyboard in the middle of his room, Bruce suddenly decides that if he has to play  _Requiem for a Dream_  one more time, he's going to be moved to do something drastic, like throw his keyboard out the window.

Bruce dumps his toiletry bag on his bag and puts on his sweater. He'll make up the practice, he figures, heading for the door. He'll get his homework done when he gets back from Tony's and then –then he'll just practice until his fingers bleed.

His plan to beeline for the door is somewhat stalled by a passing quintet that asks him to assist them in lugging some music stands to one of the many practice rooms near the orchestra room.

Bruce won't say that he's too polite to say no (like Steve), but he isn't really given an option.

A really tall, blond guy that he recognizes from freshmen orientation approaches him, a violin or viola case strapped over his shoulder and music tucked under an arm, another in one hand and a chair being dragged along by the other hand.

Before he knows it, Bruce is assisting the group in taking their four chairs, one stool, five stands, two violins, one viola, cello, and bass down to the practice rooms.

He gets a cheerful (and painful) handshake by the blond teen who proudly offers his name along with his thanks. Apparently, his name is THOR ODINSON, and Bruce barely manages to make his excuses and escape. He's pretty sure he was five seconds from being recruited to listen in on the quintet practice.

* * *

Bruce knows that Tony's family is filthy rich. He knew, before wandering over to the Stark penthouse, that it would be larger and more spectacular than his fourteen year old mind would ever be able to conceive of.

He's still a bit star-struck as he was allowed into the lobby of the building.  _The Starks have an entire skyscraper for themselves_.

Hell, Bruce is even intimidated by the neat row of buttons on the elevator attendant's uniform.

He'd been allowed in, miraculously, the second he'd explained to the guy at the door that his name was Bruce Banner and he was a friend of Tony's from Shield. Now, standing in an elevator and shooting up to the penthouse of the Stark Tower, Bruce feels jittery. What if Tony's angry and decides he doesn't want to hang out with Bruce anyway?

The elevator stops and the attendant stares at Bruce when the doors open and he continues to stand in the elevator with no apparent intention of stepping out.

"Mr. Tony will be in the den." the attendant says patiently.

"Is his room on this floor?" Bruce asks, taking a tentative step forward.

"This floor  _is_  his room," the elevator door closes before Bruce can get another word in and he ends up staring around the atrium of Tony's room-floor in bewilderment and awe. There's noises coming from somewhere further down the front hall, and Bruce follows it, finding, as he goes, that the floor is laid out like an apartment.

The noise is music, Bruce realizes. It's a generic, peppy sort of pop song that he recognizes from when he was younger but can't recall the name of. When he rounds a corner, he finds himself in the doorway of living room, complete with the largest television screen Bruce has ever seen in his life and a very comfortable looking black leather couch.

Tony and Steve are hopping up and down, watching the TV as arrows fly across the screen. Tony is panting a bit as he shouts and Steve is utterly lost in the moment.

"COME ON," Tony shrieks, "I totally hit that one!"

Steve laughs, "Keep up, will you? You're making me look better than I am,"

"Shut up," Tony grumbles, doing a little jig on his Dance Dance Revolution mat as Steve, who is one of the smallest boys in the grade –who is several inches shorter than Tony and thinner than even Bruce –continues to kick his ass at the game.

The hilarity of the scene hits Bruce suddenly and he barks laughter. The response is instantaneous; both Tony and Steve whirl around, both with surprise, and Steve's face turns red against the backlight from the television.

"Bruce," Tony says, and Bruce's smile drops, to be replaced with a nervous look.

"Hey," he manages to utter. "I –I…"

"Dude," Tony says, loudly, and Bruce readies himself for the fallout, for the accusations and the rejection –and then Tony continues, "You missed, like, two rounds already." And he turns to the TV to restart the game.

Steve flashes Bruce a smile and gives a small wave and Bruce drops onto the black couch, heart still beating wildly, and relief flooding into him.

Nothing more is said and nothing more is need to be said.

* * *

Loki is waiting in the rec room on the first floor of the boys' dormitory.

There's a couple other kids sitting around and a group gathered at an upright piano in the corner of the room, but Loki ignores them all, sitting stoically by the windowsill.

He has been waiting perhaps a total of half an hour. His stomach growls; he hadn't eaten breakfast, and had been waiting for Thor. He'd thought that they would go out, into the city as they had before in the times they had visited New York.

Thor had once taken Loki to a diner on –well, he can't remember what it was. But Thor would know. Thor remembers things like that, because he was older and…

Thor has not arrived yet.

The time is creeping past noon quickly, and Loki has no idea where Thor is. He thinks back; had they ever agreed on where they were actually going to meet?

He doesn't think so, but how difficult can it be? Thor wasn't in his room when Loki went to check earlier, and Hogun had been gone from their room when Loki woke up, so there wasn't a chance of asking the cellist even if Loki was inclined to stoop to what he considered to be such an indignity.

Loki sighs and stands up.

Perhaps Thor is looking for him elsewhere. He does have a way of being clueless sometimes, and he's never very good at finding things. He was always misplacing his music sheets or rosin, after all. He could easily be searching for Loki in the classrooms...

"Hey, Odinson,"

Loki is not a minute into his search near the orchestral rehearsal halls when he has the misfortune of encountering Wade Wilson, who is, thankfully, alone, with no menacing Cable shadowing him –not that Loki particularly finds Cable menacing –of course not. He's just quiet and looks perpetually grumpy and Loki's not really sure what he's even studying at the school –or what his agenda is (because he seems like a guy with an agenda).

"Wilson," Loki replies stiffly, allowing Wade to draw near, "I didn't realize you had interest in music –or that you could play any instruments,"

"Oh yeah, I'm pretty good with the air guitar," Wade says, "Who're you looking for?"

"What makes you think I would be looking for anyone?" Loki retorts, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and standing up straighter. It's no use. Wade is still four years older than him and he has the height advantage.

"Uh, the wideness of your eyes, the longing in your expression, and the way you keep turning your head to look around every couple of seconds?"

Loki sputters. "There is no –my expression is not –I –wait, have you been  _following_ me?"

"Some kid genius you are. You're gonna have to work on your brooding behavior, you know," Wade is about to launch into another one of his sessions of rambling, but something stops him, and he actually answers the question: "Of course I wasn't following you. Interesting as your prepubescent lifestyle probably is, I  _did_  come from the opposite direction, if you would remember."

There's a silence where Loki refuses to dumbly respond with an "Oh" and Wade is regarding him with some expression that is confusingly un-Wade-like.

"You have, like, a date or something planned?" Wade says after a while, "Because it seems like you've been ditched, kid."

"It's not a date," Loki says through his teeth, "I have not been ditched," But somehow, when he says it, all of the doubt in his mind is multiplied and all he can think of is  _I've been ditched_. But no –Thor wouldn't –he'd never—

"Hey, forget about it," Wade says, "C'mon, you can come with me. I just put all the pianos out of tune, we can go"

"-Get lost, Wilson," Loki snaps, and whirls around, stalking down the hall and back the way he came.

Thor wouldn't forget about their plans. He's not that sort of person.

Loki goes back to the dorms and stops in front of Thor's door. He knocks, but no one opens the door and so Loki sits down on the ground, and he waits.

And Loki waits a long time.

* * *

Auditions for the dance recital are on Thursday, and Natasha doesn't know for the life of her why she's spending the Saturday doing something other than practicing until her toes bleed (not that they haven't already).

Except she does know why she's not practicing and that reason is five foot six and is currently giving her a tour of the high school's air vents.

"If you look to your left," Clint says, ahead of her, "You'll see the vent for Studio C100,"

Natasha pauses and looks into her empty classroom. "Come here often, Clint?" she asks, raising her eyebrows even though she knows Clint can't see her.

He laughs, "Occasionally," he says, "Enough to realize that everyone in your class is trying to sabotage each other while it's still early on in the year,"

"I thought I heard a camera the other day," Natasha says, feeling a smile growing across her face.

"What can I say? It's part of my major,"

"You don't even go here," Natasha shakes her head.

"Oh my God," Clint stops and cranes his neck to look back at her, "Did you just-? Was that a joke?"

"Keep moving, Barton," she says, but she's grinning, and even though a part of her is screaming (and it sounds like her father's voice) to leave and to go practice ( _The classroom is empty, go, Natasha! You must practice. Perfection must be attained._ ), as she lies there in the cramped space of the air vent with Clint, she can't help but think this Saturday of forgoing her practicing is totally worth it.

* * *

Bruce and Steve end up eating dinner at Tony's place.

Tony orders up something from 'the kitchens' which turns out to look really fancy and taste like a piece of Heaven.

They sit on the ground, surrounded by a tangle of video game controllers, parts of an abandoned Monopoly game, and little tidbits of robot parts that Tony had been showing them earlier.

They have plastic cups of some sort of expensive soda and Steve gets it in his head to make a toast.

"C'mon," Tony protests, "This is cheesy,"

But Steve Must Insist, and Bruce and Tony have found that it's better to just humor Steve when he gets like this, so they raise their cups and Steve looks thoughtful for a moment before he says, "To new friends and getting through the next four years at Shield," he says.

They touch their cups together.

"To new friends," Tony says, expression serious.

There's a quiet moment where they sit there, looking around at each other, cups still raised, and then Tony adds, "and whatever the hell else these years are gonna bring," to which Steve flushes red and berates him for swearing, and Bruce can't help but grinning.

 _To whatever the hell else_ , he thinks, and brings his cup to his mouth to drink to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 4 down!  
> Alright, next up: Loki angst, Bruce finally meets his new roommate, and more Clint&Natasha! :)  
> Reviews are adored.  
> -TSM


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I lied about this chapter being more Natasha&Clint centered. Instead, we get a nice punch in the face by Loki-angst with an interlude by our very own Wade Wilson. Following that, we have a large focus on Steve, as well as a look into school life. I hope to include more details about Shield as a fine/performing arts school. If you've got any questions, feel free to ask!   
> I recently re-watched Fame for inspiration :)  
> Also, it's been a while (like...two years) since I've danced and I only ever did two years en pointe, so although I have some years of experience in various dance classes, I was never too advanced (or terrific, haha). Please let me know if I make any technical/terminological mistakes about any aspects of the artistic fields presented in this fic.   
> Furthermore, I should probably get my ass in gear and find a beta. What I'm trying to say is that all and any grammatical/spelling errors are my own fault.

**Shield High School of the Arts, Freshmen Year, Week Two:**

Loki is awoken by a gentle touch and a harsh voice that is trying hard to be soft and whispering.

"Brother," the voice says, "how long have you been here?"

Loki knows that voice. He's followed that voice for years. Even followed it to this place where he still has no friend and He pushes the hand away, squinting into a lit hallway, up at a face he thought-

"Long enough," Loki mutters, and he's not even sure if it's coherent. He's still half asleep when he staggers to his feet.

A hand reaches out to steady him.

"Don't," Loki whispers, shoving the hand away, "Don't touch me,"

"Loki, I"

"-Forgot."

Thor looks like he's been slapped but there is no guilt in his blue eyes, only sorrow. But that is not good enough for Loki, who has been waiting, who has been waiting for  _Thor –_ the only person who has  _never_ left him alone and—

"Leave me alone," he says, and he could laugh at the way Thor's eyes widen, but he just walks, slightly unsteady, still a bit sluggish.

There are no more helping hands waiting to stop him from falling, but it matters not because Loki walks with white hot tears stinging in his eyes and he does not look back.

* * *

Loki is awoken by soft snickers and an exasperated sigh.

"Mr. Odinson," Mr. Wilson's arms are crossed and his foot is tapping when Loki sits up and looks around. "Would you like to present to the class or should I get you a pillow?"

He stands, hastily, and makes his way to the front of the class, where he stands for a moment, and everyone stares at him.

* * *

Okay, first of, you can say whatever you what about Wade Wilson. He knows everyone thinks he's a weirdo, blah, blah, but who wouldn't be a little off kilter, er, mentally speaking, if they happened to have the Merc with a Mouth's backstory—

Hold on. This is an AU.

Let's backtrack a little, here.

So, Wade knows everyone thinks he's a weirdo, blah, blah, but he takes acting  _seriously_.

Yeah.

That sounds right. On with the narrative, then:

Wade watches the Odinson kid –Loki –standing at the front of the class, and he doesn't say a word, because you don't just  _do_  something like that when a guy in getting his act on. Also, he's interested to see what this kid's got in him. He must be some sort of prodigy, if he got into Shield at such a young age.

The class and Mr. Wilson wait, some expectantly, some impatiently.

Wade's not just waiting for the words –whatever Loki's challenge was –so much as he's watching the emotion on Loki's face. Or rather, in his eyes, because Loki tries to keep as much of a straight face as possible in a way that reminds Wade of a lot of people, but in a way that is uniquely Loki –waiting and cold and quietly calculating.

Loki surveys the classroom, almost like he doesn't really see anyone and he closes his eyes.

There's a long stretch of silence, and Loki's expression is smooth and unyielding and eventually Mr. Wilson clears his throat.

Loki opens his eyes, and Wade  _knows_  he's not imagining the fury there, but in a flash, it becomes something softer, something sadder, but when Loki speaks his voice is tight with anger (which is  _not_  the assignment). "Maybe I'm not doing this," he hisses, voice harsh, "for you," –his voice breaks on the last word and he looks suddenly, unbelievably heartbroken.

* * *

Loki can feel something thrumming under his skin, something that's making his insides turn and he thinks about Thor and the way he says  _brother_  and the way he has never – _ever_  let Loki down like this before, not when everyone else had –even Frigga, and –and—

He remembers the acceptance letters and the whoops of joy and thinking, thinking  _maybe_  everything was going to be wonderful and oh so  _magnificent_ , as Thor declared, and Loki believed it. So Loki followed Thor, his only friend, here to this school but Thor had no intention of keeping Loki along and now what? What is Loki even  _doing_  here?

* * *

"Maybe," Loki's voice is barely above a whisper but Wade thinks that maybe the class is holding their breaths, waiting –or maybe that's just him –"I'm doing this for  _me_."

There's no tears in his eyes like Erik or a wild, lost look in his eyes like Daken. Loki's performance is a contained rage that is only  _just_  fighting to get past Loki's composure. With his words still hanging in the air, Loki straightens out slightly hunched shoulders and stands with a cold dignity unusual for a twelve year-old. A corner of mouth curves in a small, faltering smile, and Wade stares at the hint of fear in Loki's eyes and thinks  _shit, this kid can_ act.

The applause come hesitantly at first and Wade glances at Mr. Wilson, who looks like he is beginning to seriously regret pulling out 'pain' for the first emotion of these exercises because it's possible that he might have actually  _broken_  Loki, who is still standing at the front of the classroom.

Wade looks back at Loki and sees the composure returned to Loki's face. But it's not like Erik or Daken or anyone else, who seem to just drop a mask when they finish their performance, and Wade realizes that Loki's maybe not really acting.

* * *

Bruce's class is set back by the fact that every piano is out of tune, but Ms. Cooper takes that opportunity to teach the class how to tune their pianos using a tuning fork.

Once the pianos are in working order, the class sit at their assigned upright pianos.

Rather than have the students play their prepared pieces first thing as promised, Ms. Cooper begins passing out sheet music, turning a deaf ear on the confused murmuring all around. "Today," Ms. Cooper says, "In keeping up with inconveniences… sight-reading. I know, I know," she says as the class groans, "Everyone's favorite thing." she claps her hands together, "Alright, everyone, five minutes –look over the music. Time signature. Signs. Road map. The basics. Read the notes. Imagine the rhythm.  _Feel_  it."

The room is completely silent except for the deep breathing of someone in the first row.

Bruce closes his eyes, inhales deeply. He sees the notes in his mind's eye and thinks about the beat. Internal metronome set at a quarter beat equaling ninety-six. And one and two and three and –wait. Is the downbeat-?

Bruce's eyes snap open in panic and he can't—

"Alright?" Ms. Cooper says, "Hands up. Don't let those wrists hang, now. And one and two and three and—"

* * *

Despite Steve's greatest fears and his weekend of anticipation, Natasha doesn't give him the stink-eye in their one shared class. She doesn't so much as glance at him and after the warm-ups at the bar, she moves to partner herself with someone else for the continued practice of lifts. Which, apparently, the instructor has decided everyone needs to get greater start on learning, following the Great Dropping of Natasha Romanoff.

Still, the consequence of the incident is that Steve's classmates are  _very_  wary about working with him, and in the end, Ms. Hill sighs and tells him to get in line for lifts.

"Ms. Hill," a girl with dark hair steps forward and her accent gives her away as an English transfer student, "I don't mind taking Steve's place,"

Peggy Carter is a senior and a class intern and she is tall and strong, and lifts the freshmen just as easily as any male dancer.

* * *

Before Steve leaves class that day, Ms. Hill calls him back and recommends him to the school exercise room.

Steve's face has been burning with embarrassment, and he nods mutely, thinking about Tony's offer to have him over at his place to weightlift. He's going to have to take Tony up on that offer if he wants to get anywhere with dancing.

* * *

The thing about mealtimes at Shield is that in the past seven days, only six out of twenty-one meals have not included spontaneous breakout into an improve jamming session. And most of those quiet meals had been breakfast.

Before auditioning with Jane, Steve had never really been into the whole performing arts scene. He's just a kid from Brooklynn who likes to draw and is known to help his neighbors with their groceries.

His mother had asked him, when he first told her he had been accepted to the school, whether he was prepared for the level of commitment he would have to put into his classes.

He'd said yes, and now he's wondering if he really even knew what 'commitment' entailed because he feels like he's not doing it right. He knows that he never worked that much harder than Jane –he'd even quit dancing, even when she kept on going with it.

As Steve moves toward the dining hall, dance bag still slung over his shoulder, he wonders how Jane would feel in his shoes. She was always more eager to dance than he was, and now he's here at Shield, and for a fleeting moment, Steve wonder if it was all a—

"Hi,"

He blinks, turns his head sideways, and looks up, because everyone is taller than him.

"Steve, right?" the tall and slim red-haired girl from Steve's Modern Dance technical class says. She's still in her dance clothes, though she wears a skirt around her waist and a short cardigan over her shoulders. She's also put on regular slippers, as opposed to any of her dance shoes.

"Yeah," Steve says.

She smiles, "I'm Pepper. Pepper Potts. You're Tony's friend, aren't you?"

Right. Steve's got an inkling of where this is going, "Yeah," he says again. "Uh. Tony's mentioned you before. I mean, I know you. We have the same class together but –uh." he clamps his mouth close but Pepper only smiles at him.

"I wanted you to let Tony know," she says, "That I think he's very immature and he needs to stop thinking the universe revolves around him. Also, I'm not going to the Halloween dance with him. Or the Homecoming Dance, before he asks."

"Okay?" Steve doesn't mean for it to be a question, but he wasn't really expecting this, either. Tony'd been bragging that Pepper Potts liked him.

"Make it sound like I was really angry, okay?" Pepper's still smiling, "Say I yelled." There's a twinkle in her eye. Steve doesn't know what it means, but he thinks if he were Tony, he might. Tony seems to understand girls.

Steve just nods because he's not really sure what to say, and Pepper pats his shoulder, "Thanks, Steve," she says, "I'll see you in class tomorrow. Nice talking to you," she adds, before turning and disappearing into the throng of students moving toward the dining hall.

When Steve arrives, there's already some sort of rap battle happening in one corner of the room. A crowd has formed in that area and they're egging on a student that Steve can hardly hear over the noise. He catches a few words he's pretty sure his mother would not approve of, so he doesn't linger and goes on to the lunch line.

When he gets to the table and relays Pepper's message to Tony, including the bits about how she was "very angry", Tony just sighs happily.

"I think I'm in love," he declares, which makes Steve and Bruce stare at him in disbelief.

"Right," Bruce says, then turns back to the papers before him. It's not sheet music for once, just regular homework. And because Bruce is apparently a genius as well as a musician, his regular homework as a freshman includes AB-Calculus and Chemistry.

At the table beside them, a voice suddenly rings out in a wordless song. A girl climbs onto the table, and the room quiets. Across the room, someone creates a beat, drumming (because Steve has learned the percussionist take their drumsticks  _everywhere_ ) against something that sounds like one of the metal trash bins.

The girl, still singing, voice scaling higher and higher, pumps her fist into the air and the room explodes with music –violins and winds and brass and stomping feet –which should, by reasonable logic, sound cacophonous, but it doesn't.

Tony is rolling his eyes, but he's grinning, and moving his tray of food to the side just as someone bounds over their table to land on another nearby and present an interlude of clicks and clacks from the dancer's tap shoes.

Another student, standing on a table across the room, stomps their own tap-shoe-clad feet to get everyone's attention, and begins their own impromptu routine.

A trio of stringed instrumentalists start up, accompanying the dance, which is turning more and more complex as windmills and flares are thrown in.

Steve thinks he recognizes one of the instrumentalists –Thor, he's pretty sure the guy's called –who're standing under a cloud of rosin, rising into the air like smoke from the violist and violionists' frenzied playing.

The singers take over again and Steve finds that he's grinning. He knows that he's not likely to join in with in of the dancers sashaying up and down the aisles –besides, most of them are upperclassmen...

One girl, doing something that looks based off a barrel turn, lands in front of Steve's who's seated outward to observe the excitement.

It's Peggy, he realizes, and she grins, teeth white against her painted red lips. Her usually perfect bun is coming loose and Steve just stares and he's not sure what to do, but then Peggy winks at him and turns back to join a group doing a synchronized routine on a line of tables that have been hastily pushed together into a runway.

Something happens that makes the entire room erupt into applause and cheers and everybody is on their feet and singing along with a small blonde girl wearing a short skirt and striped stockings and a tank top that declares "I Know Stuff".

Steve is still sitting, though, and a conga line forms and passes by twice before he can get his brain to start working again. He looks around to find that both Tony and Bruce have disappeared, and while he soon spots Tony in the conga line, Bruce is nowhere to be seen and Steve has a feeling he's not in the room anymore.

* * *

"So," Clint says to Phil, who is sitting behind his desk and dutifully doing something that looks important.

Clint is lounged in the chair across from Phil's desk, although lounged is too comfortable a word. In truth, the chair is wooden, and the armrest digs into Clint's back and he's pretty sure the damn seat is actually a medieval torture device.

"So," he says again, when Phil makes no reply. "Are you going to ask me how my day was?"

"Well," Phil says calmly, never looking up, "I was actually thinking more along the lines of 'I notice you've been skipping class'."

Clint sighs. "Guilty," he mutters.

Now Phil looks up, and his gaze is cool and completely void of any emotion. "Why are you missing class, Barton?" he says.

"It's only some class about lighting techniques for photography. I mean," Clint sighs again, with more drama, "I don't even  _take_  pictures. Lighting doesn't matter—"

"Have you even  _been_  to that class yet?" Phil says, unimpressed, "Clint, look. I know you're not –art isn't your 'thing', and I get it. Classes were a tight squeeze for you, so I couldn't get you into something you might find more interesting, but I'm going to need you to give your classes a chance. Respect the art, even if you don't like it, because all the other kids in your classes have worked their asses off to put together their portfolios and get into this school." he stops, waiting for Clint to say something.

"Are you allowed to swear in front of me?" Clint wonders, teasing. "Also, please don't make air quotes again. It's disturbing."

"Barton," Phil begins in a warning voice.

"Alright, alright," he raises his hands, "I'll be in Photography 101 or whatever tomorrow. Promise."

Phil only nods before turning back to scribbling on some forms in front of him.

Clint figures it's a nod of gratitude. He waits a moment before asking his next question; "So. What's  _your_  'thing'? Deputy Headmaster of an art school's gotta be able to do something, right?"

In reply, Phil only scratches out something in pen.

* * *

After Steve lets Tony know that he's leaving via a series of expressive eyebrow movements and finger pointing at the exit of the dining hall, he pushes his way out of the room, and into the hall.

As the door closes, the music and laughter of the students becomes muffled and the empty corridor outside is almost eerily silent in contrast.

Steve heads toward the dorms, a part of the building where the ceiling is lower, the linoleum floor becomes carpeted and beige brick walls become smooth and white. The lighting is dimmer in the dorms, maybe to make the halls seem cozier.

He knows Bruce is a bit wary of the jam sessions that the meals inevitably turn into, but Bruce has never just  _left_  and so Steve decides to drop by Bruce's room to see if he's alright. When he approaches the door he's sure is Bruce's he hesitates because there's someone there, another guy trying to get the door open and cursing under his breath.

The first thing Steve thinks is that someone's trying to break in, but then he sees the duffel bag slung over the other teen's shoulder and the backpack on the ground and also the key he's trying to force into the lock, and Steve remembers that Bruce didn't have a roommate yet, and this must be the missing student.

"Do you need help?" Steve asks, because that's the polite thing to do.

And then the guy turns, and though he's a decently handsome fella with dark hair and eyes, there's nothing else particularly noteworthy and yet –and yet, Steve is hit with an undeniable sense that he  _knows_  this guy from somewhere.

"The key," the teen says sheepishly with a lopsided grin, "It ain't going in and I swear this is the right room." He has a vague sort of accent that Steve immediately recognizes. It's pure Brooklyn, and it makes Steve think of home and his mom, who he talked to over the phone just yesterday. He misses her suddenly.

"Well," Steve says, realizing it's been a couple of seconds and he hasn't said anything, "My friend –Bruce –he lives in there. He's got a key, if we can find him. I'm Steve, by the way," he adds. "Steve Rogers." He holds out of hand, which the other boy stares at for a moment, eyebrows slowly raising.

"Alright, let's find Bruce, then," He laughs, but there isn't a mocking edge to it, and he clasps Steve's hand in a shake. "James Buchanan Barnes," he introduces. He leans in a little, like they're the world's greatest conspirators, like his next words are for Steve's ears only. "But just call me Bucky," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, our plot oozes forth...  
> I hope to introduce some further character conflicts that I've had in mind soon. For example, that Natasha seems pretty suspicious and I think we should learn more about her possible (coughdefinitecough) inner turmoil. Also, Clint and Phil -what's up with them? Does Steve actually know Bucky from somewhere? And where the hell is Fury?  
> Answers to these questions and more-- eventually. ;D
> 
> Which characters are you interested in learning more about?  
> Ah, anyway. This fic is picking up speed, and I hope to be able to continue delivering chapters to my wonderful, hypothetical audience. :*  
> -TSM


End file.
